


kiss it better

by reciprocity



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 17:12:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10598484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reciprocity/pseuds/reciprocity
Summary: “Viktor,” Yuuri begins, in a tone lower than before. “Let me take care of you.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably the most trite title I've ever used for anything, but I swear I'm only mostly using it because I listened to Kiss It Better - Rihanna on a loop pretty much the entire time I was writing this, and not just because I'm that much of a sap.
> 
> Alright, six of one, half a dozen of the other.

Viktor’s fingers drum a steady rhythm against the edge of the barrier he leans against.

The sound is subtle enough, hollow and dull against the din of the stadium around them. Yuuri isn’t entirely sure Viktor knows he’s doing it— it’s been nearly five minutes since he has last said a word, focus intent on the proceedings before him. Yuuri, consistently all too aware of Viktor’s every tic and movement, can feel his blood pressure spike the slightest bit on every fifth beat.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, ending the near-silence suddenly. Yuuri flinches, startled out of watching Viktor watch his fellow competitors on the ice.

“Hm?”

Viktor doesn’t turn to look at him as he asks, “How many quads did Georgi have in his final routine?”

Yuuri frowns. “Just the one.” Viktor knows this, he had seen him on the ice not an hour ago, just as clearly as Yuuri had.

Viktor hums, gaze still resolute on the ice. “But he moved it to the latter half of his program for today, no?”

“He did,” Yuuri says, and receives another vague hum of acknowledgement in answer.

Yuuri looks at his fiancé-née-coach, fingers tapping against the edge of his folded arm now. His brow is the tiniest bit furrowed, lips pursed in thought. His eyes are trained ahead, but his focus is clearly elsewhere, attention turned inwards instead.

The expression is a familiar one to Yuuri— though it isn’t one he’s used to seeing on _Viktor’s_ face instead of his own.

Yuuri watches as he fiddles with the cuff of his sleeve a moment later; the line of the taller man’s shoulders is taut and unhappy.

Yuuri takes a moment in marvel in his own familiarity with Viktor’s body language— the past year and some months has granted Yuuri a much more intimate knowledge of the other man than his younger self could have ever dreamed of.

It has also, he thinks, hopefully, granted him the opportunity to give Viktor a small piece of the comfort and peace he had brought into Yuuri’s life, back.

“ _Vitya _,” Yuuri starts, voice soft. Viktor turns almost immediately, though his eyes are still largely unfocused when they land on Yuuri. From this angle he can just make out the gold lining Viktor’s throat, the black of his Short Program outfit rising above the high collar of his warmup jacket.__

____

____

“Are you alright?” Yuuri asks sincerely, still keeping quiet.

Viktor’s brow furrows deeper. “Yes, Yuuri, I’m fine,” he answers, too quickly, and Yuuri almost wants to snort— even a year ago he would have been able to sniff out that particular white lie.

A beat later, “Are you alright?” Viktor asks back.

Yuuri nods in return, but then pinches his eyebrows together, and bites his lip in that way that he has learned Viktor finds the slightest bit distracting.

“Actually…” he trails off, voice unsure. Viktor’s eyes drop momentarily down a few centimeters, and then back up, the blue in them visibly sharper and thinner now.

Yuuri takes a moment to sidle an assessing look Yakov’s way; luckily enough, Viktor’s coach is currently embroiled in what appears to be a heated lecture directed towards one of the Junior skaters.

For likely the first time, Yuuri finds himself grateful for the older man’s terrifying and single-minded fury.

Biting down on a triumphant smile, Yuuri turns his attention back to the man before him. With little prompting, he goes on, “Could we head out for a moment? The crowd is just a bit-” A small handwave. “Overwhelming, you know?”

Viktor’s gaze travels in a quick circuit from Yuuri, to the rink, to the competitor currently skating off of it, to Yakov, and back. The split-second hesitation Yuuri catches in his expression settles the last of his own resolve— they could both definitely use the break from here, at least.

“Viktor?” Yuuri prompts.

The response is near immediate this time. “Of course, Yuuri.”

Yuuri smiles warmly at Viktor, and turns on his heel towards the competitors’ exit of the arena, knowing that Viktor is following closely behind.

Once out of earshot of the arena’s white noise, Yuuri breathes in a deep sigh. In truth, the fanfare and racket of competitions will always be one of his lesser favorite parts of his chosen career. The absence of it now though allows him to think more clearly, turning his attention toward more important matters.

Namely, the furtive glances Viktor has taken to casting at the clock above the closed backstage door.

“You’re last up today, you have plenty of time still,” Yuuri tries for reassuring.

Viktor only hums, again, and Yuuri decides a more hands-on approach is needed.

Unsure of where exactly to start, Yuuri settles for basics— quickly reaching out and grabbing ahold of Viktor’s quarter-gloved hands.

That does get Viktor’s attention at least— his gaze lands fully on Yuuri for what feels like the first time since they left the apartment early this morning.

“Are you certain you’re alright, _lyubimiy_?” he asks, voice gone soft.

Yuuri can’t entirely bite back a smile; of course Viktor would be more concerned with Yuuri’s state of mind than his own. “I promise, _Vitenka_ ,” Yuuri answers, and earns the faintest reddening of the tips of Viktor’s ears.

Viktor’s fingers squeeze around his own for the smallest second. It is easy, then, for Yuuri to find the courage to rock up onto his toes and press his lips briefly to Viktor’s own.

Viktor makes a small surprised sound, and Yuuri is barely leaning away before he is being chased back down, Viktor unsatisfied with just the one kiss, as Yuuri had known he would be, just as he always is.

It’s easy, then, to fall into the well worn back and forth of trading kisses. Yuuri sighs against Viktor’s mouth, feeling tension he hadn’t realized he had been holding in his own shoulders rapidly falling away.

It’s easy, until the crowd noise from outside grows suddenly louder, and the sound of the announcer’s excited voice crackles through the arena’s speaker system, announcing some faceless competitors’ score.

Yuuri pulls back out of surprise more than anything. When he blinks up at Viktor, he finds his brows have pinched back together, the grip on Yuuri’s hands growing slack.

Yuuri takes a minute to reassess: he is obviously no stranger to anxiety himself, but Viktor wears his worry much differently than he. Where Yuuri often feels lost in the multitude of possibilities before him, frozen out of fear of the million different ways he could screw it all up, he knows Viktor feels weighted by inevitability and the expectations placed upon him, fearing stagnancy above all else.

Yuuri also knows without doubt that Viktor will go out on the ice today and give a beautiful performance, no matter what his nerves may say, and no small part of him thrills at even the idea of getting to watch him from the sidelines, not only just as someone in love with Viktor’s skating, but as someone heartrendingly, achingly in love with the man himself.

Yuuri knows this, as well as he knows that Viktor knows this. Anxiety, as they have both learned, unfortunately does not often listen to reason.

“You know,” Yuuri says. He lets go of Viktor’s hands in favor of cupping the other man’s jaw. “I never took you for the nervous type, Nikiforov.”

Viktor blinks at him, mouth working open for a silent moment, before he starts, indignant, “I’m not-”

“You could’ve fooled me,” Yuuri goes on, a smirk tugging at the edge of his lips now. There must be a softness in his eyes, because Viktor quickly loses his offended look, and smiles crookedly back.

He huffs out a small breath. “ _Yuu _-ri. You’re teasing.”__

____

____

“Mm.” Yuuri trails one hand down Viktor’s neck, slow, purposeful. When he meets Viktor’s eyes again, the other man looks him a question. He shrugs a shoulder, as he hooks his fingers in the edge of Viktor’s collar.

Yuuri bites at his lip, considering. He weighs the complications of wordlessly guiding Viktor to his end goal against the embarrassment of making the offer flat-out; when Viktor begins nuzzling at his wrist, decides easily on the latter.

“Viktor,” Yuuri begins, in a tone lower than before. “Let me take care of you?”

Viktor stares at him for a beat, before comprehension begins to dawn. Viktor nods, slow, still not releasing Yuuri’s hand or looking away from Yuuri’s intent gaze.

“I’m always at your mercy, _zolotse_ ,” Viktor answers after a loaded moment, voice turned breathy as well.

Yuuri holds back a small, ridiculing snort, instead settling for a silent but arched look, as he begins tugging at the zipper of Viktor’s jacket, hand moving teasingly slow. “Good.”

He reveals the sleek lacquer of Viktor’s costume inch by inch: solid black accented by brash and glittering gold; a trim running across the side of one hip, curling up and ending somewhere around Viktor’s sternum; tight black sleeves ending in black gloves, covering every finger except the third to last on the right hand.

Yuuri takes a moment to appreciate the artistry in such a simple look, made elegant by the way Viktor wears it. The fabric clings to every curve of his body, not unlike the way the Eros costume had fit on Yuuri himself last year, and on Viktor years before that.

Yuuri bites his lip, caught up not for the first time in thoughts of _Viktor_ and _beautiful_ and _mine_. He vaguely wonders how he will be able to keep his composure, when Viktor skates out onto the ice, wearing only this and Yuuri’s ring on his finger.

These thoughts are interrupted when Viktor tugs slightly at Yuuri’s own jacket, having already shrugged completely out of his own now, impatient as ever.

“ _Yuu-ri_ ,” he whines, and when Yuuri meets his gaze again, he finds it has gone half-lidded and as dark as he imagines his own has.

He leans up for a kiss, and is met with Viktor’s waiting mouth, lips already parted in anticipation. Yuuri wastes no time in taking advantage of the offer, tongue delving into Viktor’s mouth, less exploratory than possessive.

Viktor groans, and wraps his arms tight around Yuuri’s shoulders, crushing the two of them together, and catching Yuuri’s hands uncomfortably between them.

The third time Yuuri’s glasses bump against Viktor’s cheek, Yuuri pulls away with a frustrated sound. He removes the offending eyewear, and turns to place them on the bench behind himself. While he’s there, he divests himself of his jacket as well, overwarm from more than just the room’s poor air circulation.

When he turns back around, he doesn’t miss the way Viktor’s eyes rake up along his body, dark and drinking him in.

Darting a glance at the clock, Yuuri considers hurrying this encounter along— it has only been a few minutes since their departure from the rinkside, but it’ll only be so long before Yakov and the rest begin to notice their absence.

Yuuri steps back into Viktor’s space. Instead of leaning back in for a kiss, though, he ducks his face into the crook of Viktor’s neck. He noses against the collar of Viktor’s costume for a moment, before running his teeth lightly across the exposed skin above it.

With a quiet groan, Viktor immediately tips his head back, allowing Yuuri better access; he takes full advantage of the offer, nipping and sucking at the skin until a lasting bruise is almost guaranteed.

“ _Vitya_ ,” he breathes out a minute later, breath hot across Viktor’s throat. Viktor makes a small, choked noise in response, and when Yuuri pulls away more fully, he finds the other man’s eyes remain unopened.

Yuuri considers drawing this out a while longer, making Viktor beg for it first maybe, before he remembers himself, and why he had started this all to begin with. As tempting a prospect as it is, it isn’t what either of them wants— or needs— right now.

Instead, Yuuri leans up for a last quick peck on the lips, before dropping himself onto his knees in one swift motion.

Viktor lets out a startled curse and then a moaned, “ _Yuuri_ ,” as Yuuri begins nuzzling against the black fabric of Viktor’s leggings, mouthing wetly along the seam inside his right thigh.

Yuuri is blessedly intimate enough with this particular outfit to know where exactly the well-hidden zips and ties of it are, and it is only a scant few seconds more before he has them undone enough to pull Viktor’s half-hard cock from the clinging, dark fabric.

Viktor’s hand quickly settles on the back of Yuuri’s head. He puts no pressure there, simply running his fingers through his hair in an almost soothing motion. Yuuri leans into the touch, and rewards it by licking a stripe down the underside of Viktor’s dick. Viktor’s fingers stutter, and he breathes out another small groan.

He doesn’t quite beg for it, but Yuuri can hear it in his hitched breathing— feel it in the twitch of Viktor’s hand in his hair.

Yuuri, impatient in his own right, throws away any pretenses, and swallows Viktor down in one abrupt go.

Yuuri would like to think this is one of the bedroom activities he is particularly proficient at, and he would like to think the stream of broken Russian interspersed with iterations of his own name currently spilling from Viktor’s lips is a fair indication of this.

However, Yuuri is aiming to put Viktor at ease right now, not further wind him up. So he slowly eases off, only spluttering slightly as Viktor’s cock passes over the back of his tongue. He bobs forward again a second later, more deliberate this time, using his hand to squeeze at the base as he does.

Viktor moans his appreciation, and Yuuri silently preens at the praise.

He eventually finds a leisured rhythm, taking Viktor deeper on each rock forward; when his teeth graze against the head on one go, Viktor’s fingers momentarily tighten in Yuuri’s hair, jumpier than usual; Yuuri makes a small sound in the back of his throat as he abruptly pulls off.

“ _Vitya_ ,” he drawls, swaying forward to press a kiss to Viktor’s bared hip. He smears a bit of precome and spit on the skin in the process. “Relax.” Another kiss. “I’ve got you,” he reassures, meeting Viktor’s gaze through his lashes.

Viktor swallows, and nods. He lets his hand slip from the back of Yuuri’s head to his shoulder, where he squeezes gently. “All right, _dorogoy_.”

Yuuri graces him with a smile, sunny and soft and enough to make Viktor’s chest squeeze. Dropping a final kiss to Viktor’s skin, Yuuri returns back to task, sudden wet heat enveloping Viktor’s tip. Viktor’s hand tenses on Yuuri’s shoulder before he catches himself, and purposely relaxes it. Yuuri makes a pleased noise, and moves forward, taking Viktor deeper.

Seeing little need to drag this out for too long, Yuuri quickens his pace, and pointedly loosens his hold on Viktor’s thighs. Much better attuned to the other’s body language than he had been months ago, Viktor takes this as the invitation to tentatively roll his hips forward that it is.

Yuuri slackens his throat as best he can, and lets Viktor fuck into his mouth, slowly and shallowly. Viktor’s grip on his shoulder only tightens again once Yuuri can tell he’s close, and Yuuri puts in a renewed effort to suck at the length in his mouth.

Viktor comes moaning Yuuri’s name, muffled somewhat by the back of his own hand. Yuuri feels an answering tug of arousal in his own belly at the sound, as well as the taste of Viktor’s release in his mouth, but he ignores it in favor of working Viktor through the last of his orgasm with his mouth and hands.

He rises from his knees with less grace than he had gone down with, and significantly more soreness, but it’s worth it to kiss the blissed-out look off of Viktor’s face.

“You’re incredible, _kotyonok_ ,” Viktor mumbles, lips moving against Yuuri’s.

Yuuri blushes, pleased at a job well done. Gone now is the tension in Viktor’s lower back, the odd slouch of his shoulders. He looks at Yuuri with bright and keen eyes, hands roving from Yuuri’s back to his ass, expression meaningful.

“Do you need…” he trails off, eyebrow raised.

“Oh, no,” Yuuri waves off the offer. There is still a low-simmering heat in his veins, and he can feel his cock, partially hard in his slacks, but there isn’t any urgency to either. “Later,” he murmurs promisingly, and Viktor hums in assent.

“Later.”

They re-situate themselves in quick order: Yuuri picks Viktor’s discarded jacket off of the floor and hands it over, barely looking at it, and Viktor helps him shrug back into his own a moment later.

Yuuri thanks him with a last, lingering kiss, before they pull apart and breathe each other in for one more drawn-out moment.

“ _Radost’ moya_ ,” Viktor says into the tiny space between them. “Thank you.” 

Yuuri laughs, quiet and sweet. “You’ll do wonderful today, _Vitenka_.”

Viktor hums. “As long as you’re watching.”

Yuuri doesn’t have a response for that, flustered by words so close to ones he had said to Viktor himself once upon a time. He settles for threading their fingers together, running his thumb absentmindedly over the gold band there as they make their way back out to the stands.

Once they are back among the rest of the Russian team, Viktor leaves Yuuri’s side to go find his skates— there will only be one performance left before Viktor’s turn is up.

Yuuri finds a place to sit near a surprisingly calm and conversing Yakov and Yurio. He zones out after a while, lulled by the now-familiar rhythm of their banter, as he watches the Junior skater from earlier take center ice.

“Nice break?” a cheery voice asks, ending his reverie.

“What?” he asks, squinting up at a smirking Mila.

“Did you have a nice break with Viktor,” she clarifies, the glint in her eye only growing brighter.

“I don’t-”

“You came back wearing each other’s jackets” she says simply, before turning halfway to laugh not-very-discreetly into her own palm.

Yuuri glances, with a growing dread, down to confirm, and finds he is indeed wearing Viktor’s signature red-and-white instead of his own familiar blue-and-black. He also finds, horrifyingly enough, that both Yakov and Yurio have obviously overheard and are looking between him and Viktor with wariness and thinly veiled distaste, respectively.

He thinks, maybe, he might have gotten away with it as little more than a slightly embarrassing mistake, if not for his cheeks flushing a bright, betraying red. Or for the look Viktor sends his way as he enters onto the ice later, fingering idly but unmistakably at the bruise Yuuri had left there minutes before.

Yuuri buries his face in his hands, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Viktor for a second after.

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't squint too hard at the details of the competition they are currently at— it was intended to be a qualifier before Viktor's Official Comeback, but I have 0 clue how actual irl figure skating works at all, and, well. Plot devices, etc.
> 
> Anyway! Comments and kudos are highly appreciated!!! Thank you for reading! <3


End file.
